


Witcher secrets

by Saetha



Series: O Swallow, have mercy on them [Febuwhump 2021 Prompt Fills] [25]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, FebuWhump2021, Happy Ending, Hostage Situations, Humor, Hurt Lambert (The Witcher), Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, Imprisonment, M/M, Prisoner of War, Restraints, Sassy Witchers, Soft Lambert (The Witcher), no beta we die like Coën :(
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 06:15:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29696298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saetha/pseuds/Saetha
Summary: “’Forbidden knowledge of the arcane and occult’,” Geralt repeats. “Do you mean Adolfius’An Exploration of the Secrets of the Arcane Arts as dictated by Chaos, perhaps? Or are you after Vesemir’s secret spice rub recipe?”The man hesitates for a moment before he nods enthusiastically.“Yes, yes! Give us the book! And whatever you have besides!” He sounds far too eager in Lambert’s opinion. And clearly has no idea what he is talking about.*Lambert and Coën get caught and held hostage by some people who want to find out "the secrets of the Witchers". Geralt and Eskel come to their rescue.
Relationships: Coën/Lambert (The Witcher)
Series: O Swallow, have mercy on them [Febuwhump 2021 Prompt Fills] [25]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2138178
Comments: 12
Kudos: 36
Collections: febuwhump 2021





	Witcher secrets

**Author's Note:**

> Lambert/Coën is such a great ship (so is Lambert/Coën/Aiden btw and I cannot wait to produce more content for them. For now, [have some headcanons](https://heartoferebor.tumblr.com/post/643590804899758080).). Come fight me in the parking lot at Sainsbury's at 3am if you disagree (socially distanced. Which means we will wave at each other and have a polite conversation and then end up yelling about how awesome all of these characters are and then I would cry because I want to hug you). 
> 
> This is the one fic this month where I actually tried to be funny rather than just angsty. Let me know if that worked lmao. (And of course, some soft Lambert. Of course)
> 
> Today's prompt was originally 'Car accident' but I chose Alt Prompt 5, 'Hostage Situation', instead.

“Oh, come the fuck on.”

Lambert raises his hands, carefully and slowly, making sure to keep them as far away from any weapons that are still left on his person as possible. The man in front of him nods to someone behind him, the crossbow never wavering from where it’s squarely pointed at Lambert’s chest. At so short a distance it would be very hard to miss, and Lambert has absolutely no desire to find out what a reinforced bolt like this one can do to a Witcher’s chest. Someone grabs his hands and forces them together behind his back. It doesn’t take long for the cold weight of iron shackles to close around them. And perhaps, at this point, he would’ve chanced a crossbow bolt to his chest for a chance at escaping, if it weren’t for the other man still tied up on the stake across the courtyard, iron chains defeating even his strongest attempt at Signs.

“Was that supposed to be a rescue attempt?” Coën asks with a little snort as they string Lambert up on a second post beside him. His arms are stretched uncomfortably far above his head and the beginning winter chill in the air makes the iron’s bite on his skin all the more vicious. Like Coën, they collar his neck and ankles too, as if he’d had any chance to escape before that. Perhaps he should take it as a compliment.

“I tried, didn’t I,” Lambert defends himself. “Like some bloody romantic from the damn songs.”

“Very romantic, yes.” Coën very pointedly moves his wrists, making the iron chains connected to his manacles jingle. Lambert notices the wince that crosses his features at even so slight a motion. It’s not really a surprise after how long the Griffin must have been chained up in this position for, but it reignites the anger in his chest nonetheless. “If this is your idea of romance, I don’t want to know what you’re planning on doing to me in bed this winter.”

“Shut up. What did you do to them to merit all these extra restraints in the first place?” Lambert nods down at the collar around his throat, uncomfortably tight and already chafing. With the air this cold and dry it won’t take long for their skin to start to rip and bleed. Coën’s has already, from the dried brown fleck visible on his wrists.

“I have to admit that I became slightly irritated when the promised contract turned out to be a trap.” Coën admits. “Sounded fishy from the beginning, but I’ve never turned a contract down, and don’t plan on starting to do so now. Might’ve bitten one or two of them quite well when they tried to put me in shackles the first time.”

“ _Bitten_?” Lambert is incapable from keeping a laugh bubbling up through his throat. “You? I would’ve expected it from one of those prissy Cats, sure, but _you_?”

“I’m not above more menial methods of self-defence when the situation calls for it,” Coën snorts indignantly. “At least I put up _some_ sort of fight.”

“Well, excuse me for not wanting to end up with a crossbow bolt between my ribs,” Lambert snaps back. “You have any idea what they want from us?”

“They didn’t really say. Something about ‘Witcher secrets’. Thought they were gonna torture me or something for information, but they realised pretty quickly after a few beatings that I wasn’t exactly forthcoming.” Coën shrugs, the chains above him jingling. He can’t quite hide his wince, however, and Lambert begins to look him over more closely as well as he can from a distance.

“You alright?” he asks, any trace of teasing gone from his voice. If they hurt his Griffin, then so Melitele help them-

“What, you’re actually worried about me? Careful, Lambert, or these people might realise that Witchers have a heart after all.” Coën’s expression is softening, however. He shifts a little and winces again. “Some bruised ribs, is all. I’ll be fine.”

Lambert doesn’t quite trust his assessment. He remembers well all those times where Coën had waved off his concerns, only to almost collapse in his arms later. However, he leaves it be for now. It doesn’t look like Coën’s bleeding outright, and what he can hear of his heartbeat and breathing from here sounds a little strained, but steady enough.

“Well. Let’s hope they won’t change their mind and decide that torture is the best way for them to get what they want after all.” Lambert shudders a little. “Do you know who they are?”

“No.” Coën frowns. “Nobody I was familiar with. Can’t see any crests or symbols either.”

“Great,” Lambert mumbles. “So we’re just supposed to stay out here and freeze our arses off, is that it? If so, that’s an awfully unreliable and long-winded way of executing someone.”

“Stranger things have happened.” Coën shrugs. “Maybe they’re part of some weird new sect. Worshippers of some kind of winter god or another. We’d make a prime sacrifice with how long it’d take us to freeze to death.”

“Always so charmingly uplifting and positive. That’s why I love you, Griffin.” Lambert bares his teeth, but it cannot quite cover up the worry lodged in his gut. He’s seen too many terrible things on his travels not to be aware that there might be some actual truth to Coën’s words. As if to amplify his fears, nobody comes to visit them in the isolated courtyard of the small keep they’ve found themselves in. Not for the rest of the day, or the night, or the day after. By now, Lambert can barely feel his fingers, especially once an icy wind has picked up, a clear sign of the approaching winter. Where he isn’t freezing, his body aches from the position it’s held in by the chains, compounded by hunger and thirst. Maybe they’ll really leave them here, to be buried in ice and snow, until their frozen corpses emerge and melt again in spring like the world’s most depressing flower.

The trickle of conversation between him and Coën has stopped, too, and through the darkness of early night, Lambert can see how Coën is slumped in his restraints, even less fond of and able to resist the cold than Lambert. He winces when he thinks of the strain it must be putting on his shoulders.

“Fuck, I wish they’d just start burning us like they do with witches,” Lambert mumbles through frozen lips, teeth chattering. “At least we’d be warm.”

“You’re not funny, Lambert.” Coën’s reply is barely audible, but at least there _is_ a reply, and Lambert breathes a sigh of relief.

“Yeah, well, you can’t blame me for being in a pissy mood,” he shoots back. This night is quite high up in his ranking of worst nights ever.

“You’re _always_ in a pissy mood,” is the murmured reply, and Lambert snorts.

“Not true. I made you stew that one time, remember?” he contradicts Coën. He’s actually made multiple stews in winter at Kaer Morhen, and not just for Coën. “Plus, you once told me I was a great fuck.”

Of course, their captors choose that exact moment to walk into the courtyard. Lambert groans and bangs his head against the stake he’s tied to. His Witcher’s hearing picks up the quietest of chuckles from Coën. His attention, however, soon refocuses entirely when he realises who is walking into the courtyard right behind their captors, his white hair and predatory gait unmistakeable.

Geralt.

Lambert feels his stomach drop at the sight. Did they manage to catch Geralt, too, somehow? But there are no restraints on him, nor is he being herded along at sword point, although the same person who had already threatened Lambert with a crossbow has his weapon trained on Geralt now. However, Geralt is still carrying his swords slung across his back and is managing to look altogether unfazed. Lambert has to gape at their captors’ stupidity of allowing a Witcher his swords in here. Lambert and Coën exchange a gaze – they are likely the only ones who can scent the nervousness behind Geralt’s façade in the air.

Lambert wonders what he’s waiting for, why he hasn’t started fighting already, when one of their captors walks up next to him, at the same moment that Geralt turns around to face them. The leader of the little gang that captured them walks forward, indicating Lambert and Coën with a quick gesture.

“As you can see, they are both alive and mostly unharmed, as we promised. However, should you try anything…” He makes a little motion with his hand, and the man next to Lambert raises a knife to his throat, right above where the iron collar sits. He doesn’t even get to finish the motion before Lambert snarls and headbutts him in the face with all his might, hearing the satisfying crunch of bone breaking when his forehead connects with the man’s nose. It’s worth almost strangling himself and the burning line that the knife’s blade leaves under his chin.

It's even worth the retaliating punch that lands in his kidneys a moment later, and the knee that follows it into his gut. And the second one. Lambert retches, dimly hearing Coën’s voice calling his name through the pain.

“That’s enough.” The leader of their kidnappers calls out. “Remember, we promised to give them back unharmed, should this one be willing to fulfil our demands.”

Lambert shakes his head, tries to clear his thoughts through the red haze in front of his eyes. This time, the man whose nose he just broke steps far enough away not to be within reach anymore when he holds the knife to his throat. Lambert feels a vicious spark of satisfaction at the sight of the blood on the man’s face. He tries to get his roiling insides back under control and regains his senses just in time to hear Geralt speak.

“What do you want?” he asks. His arms are crossed in front of his chest and he is looking bored, seemingly unaffected by the violent outburst from a few moments ago. Except, Lambert can smell the underlying current of fear and can hear his heart beating faster than normal.

“We want the Witchers’ secrets.” The leader makes a grant gesture, encompassing the two caught Witchers and Geralt in it. Geralt waits for him to elaborate, but the man doesn’t say anything else and the silence begins to stretch uncomfortably long. Lambert exchanges a glance with Coën, who just shrugs slightly in reply. No, he doesn’t know what he means either.

“And those secrets are…?” Geralt gently prompts the man to go on. Lambert can’t see the leader’s face from his position, but he seems to just be staring at Geralt, who is starting to look slightly lost.

“All of them. You know.” The man finally gestures. “We know you have secrets at your keep. Books. And elixirs. And forbidden knowledge of the arcane and occult.”

Lambert looks at Coën again, who mouths _What the fuck_ in his direction. He frowns in response, not sure whether he is supposed to laugh or cry at the spectacle in front of him. The embarrassment inside him at being caught by such an incompetent rabble is mounting by the second. If he weren’t so cold and still in considerably pain, he’d be laughing out loud. Probably.

“’Forbidden knowledge of the arcane and occult’,” Geralt repeats. “Do you mean Adolfius’ _An Exploration of the Secrets of the Arcane Arts as dictated by Chaos_ , perhaps? Or are you after Vesemir’s secret spice rub recipe?”

The man hesitates for a moment before he nods enthusiastically.

“Yes, yes! Give us the book! And whatever you have besides!” He sounds far too eager in Lambert’s opinion. And clearly has no idea what he is talking about.

“Well, let us know when you find it.” Geralt does his very best to maintain a serious expression on his face, but Lambert can see the muscles in one cheek twitching. “Nobody’s seen that book in over a century, and we’d love to have it back in our library.”

There is another uncomfortable pause as the man clearly has no idea what to do with such an answer.

“Are you making fun of me?” he finally asks. “Because you’ll pay for that.” He makes a motion with his hand and Lambert stiffens when the man holding the knife to his throat presses it down against his skin until he can feel a sharp prick and the telltale warmth of blood running down his throat.

Geralt’s eyes flicker to him, a quiet apology in them. Lambert can hear Coën growl and strain against his bonds. Their care would make him feel warm inside if he weren’t almost frozen solid at this point.

“Of course not,” Geralt says, raising his hand in a placating gesture. “We’d just like to know the best way to fulfil your demands.”

“Then you will tell me your secrets!” The man repeats and Geralt sighs. Lambert stops listening to their conversation, however, when the pressure at his throat is suddenly gone and the man next to him lets out a quiet sigh. Before he can fall to the ground, someone catches him, gently lowering his body without making a sound. Neither the leader of their captors nor the man holding the crossbow trained on Geralt seem to have heard anything, far too engrossed in their conversation. Lambert turns his head to catch sight of Eskel, eyes hard as steel. He’s nicer than Lambert would’ve been – the man on the ground is still breathing faintly, just unconscious.

Eskel grabs Lambert’s shoulder, squeezes it reassuringly and throws Coën a quick nod before stepping over the body and approaching the one holding the crossbow from behind. He leaps across the last few feet Witcher-fast, ramming the pommel of his steel sword into the man’s temple. The crossbow falls to the ground with a clatter, followed shortly after by the man’s body collapsing in a boneless heap. Lambert doesn’t care much whether he’s dead or alive.

Geralt pulled his sword the moment that Eskel had appeared behind the crossbow man and was on the groups leader within seconds. What follows can hardly be called a fight – not even the reinforcement that storm the little courtyard at their leader’s yelling are much of a match against two furious Witchers in their prime.

It doesn’t take long for Geralt and Eskel to be the only ones still standing in a courtyard littered with bodies, some still breathing, some clearly dead. They survey the scene, waiting for more people to come at them, but everything remains quiet, and after a moment they relax.

“Hey. A little help here?” Lambert jingles the chains that still hold his arms tied to the post and regrets the movement immediately when the icy metal rips open the skin around his wrists.

“No, we’ll just stand here and stare into the distance for a while longer,” Geralt replies with a snort. He and Eskel begin digging through the pockets of the men they have felled, searching for the keys to the shackles. They manage to recover more than one set, thankfully – Eskel comes over to unlock Lambert’s restraints, while Geralt helps Coën. There is definite concern in Eskel’s gaze when he takes in the bloody cut on his throat, his hypothermic state and his raw wrists.

He catches Lambert when his legs treaten to buckle as soon as the collar and shackles holding him up are gone, and Lambert feels a wave of exhaustion rolling through him now that the adrenaline from the previous situation is slowly dissipating.

“You alright?” Eskel asks, already slinging Lambert’s arm around his shoulders without waiting for a reply.

“Jus’ fine,” Lambert mumbles, his words belied by the chattering of his teeth. “Just need to get warm again.”

Lambert looks over at Coën, who’s being supported by Geralt and looks like he’s even colder than Lambert is, eyes half closed and visibly trembling. Geralt and Eskel swap a concerned gaze before they remove all the cloaks they can find from the men on the ground and wrap the two freezing Witchers in them.

“If we take a few days’ rest, we should still be able to make it back to Kaer Morhen in time,” Eskel muses with another worried glance at Coën who seems barely conscious at this point. “There’s an abandoned farmstead not far from here, should be enough to warm these two back up again and let us all regain some strength before we tackle the passes.”

Lambert wants to object, wants to tell them that they are fine and there’s nothing to worry about and that they really shouldn’t risk getting caught in a snowstorm before making it home to Kaer Morhen, but the words seem to be stuck to the roof of his mouth and it uses up all his concentration just to put one foot in front of the other instead.

The way to the farmstead is a blur. The next thing he knows is the warming blaze of a fire on his face when Eskel uses his _Igni_ to light the pile of wood. He and Coën are lying side by side under a pile of furs, stripped of the vast majority of their clothes and their wounds all looked after, whilst Eskel and Geralt make sure that the farmstead is secure, looking after the horses and sorting supplies.

“Hey,” Lambert murmurs when Coën’s eyes blink open. He looks groggy and hazy still, but there is at least part of his usual lively spark back in his gaze.

“Hey,” Coën answers back. “Good to see your face, Wolf.” He reaches over, tracing the scars on the right half of Lambert’s face with his fingers.

“Likewise. You had me worried there for a second, icicle.” Lambert shifts until he can press a clumsy kiss on Coën’s cheek. His skill is still chilly, but no longer the icy cold from before. Praise be to a Witcher’s metabolism, Lambert thinks. Ordinary humans would likely have frozen to death in their stead, or at least lost a few extremities severe frostbite.

“Oh dear. One might almost think you have a heart,” Coën smiles. Lambert just grunts and kisses him again.

“And looking at you, someone might think that not all Griffins are noble and prissy arseholes,” he shoots back. Coën pulls him closer and laughs. Another shiver runs through him and Lambert immediately feels worry rising up inside him again.

“Come here,” he says, rearranging his body so that Coën is pressed against his chest, as tightly as possible, not paying any heed to the pain that shoots through his abused ribs at the motion. It doesn’t matter that Coën is a good bit taller than him, he still curls up against Lambert with a little sigh as they scoot closer to the fire. Lambert presses his forehead into the nape of Coën’s neck, can feel the bandage where the collar has rubbed his skin raw. He kisses Coën’s back again, right above the scar that runs across both shoulder blades.

“Better?” he asks.

“Mhm.” Coën mumbles, searching for Lambert’s arm and pulling it around his hips. He intertwines their fingers, wriggles a little until he is exactly in the right position, and heaves a content sigh. “’s good. Warm.”

“Good.” Lambert concentrates on Coën’s heartbeat, happy to find it reassuringly slow and strong, as always. “Now sleep.”

“Likewise.” Coën’s answer is so quiet that even Lambert can barely hear it, but it makes him grin nonetheless. Lambert sighs, too, before he finally closes his eyes.

He doesn’t even hear it when Eskel and Geralt return to the room a few moments later, identical smiles blooming on their faces as they look at the Wolf and Griffin intertwined under the blankets and furs.


End file.
